


The World on a String

by primroseshows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark!Mycroft, F/M, Gen, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of miscarriage, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primroseshows/pseuds/primroseshows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft would like Lestrade in the palm of his hand. Simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World on a String

When Mycroft said, “And you know how it always upset Mummy,” this was true. From childhood, it was true. Sherlock was always the one to make their mother anxious, get himself into dangerous situations that seemed specifically designed to attack her heart, give her grey hairs.

When Sherlock said, “It wasn’t me who upset her, _Mycroft_ ,” this was true as well, in a literal sense. Sherlock got himself into bad situations, but it was Mycroft who tattled. Mycroft always knew what Sherlock was up to, and few things gave him greater pleasure than seeing the look on his little brother’s dirt-ridden face when he finally scampered home, only to be met with a stern set of Mummy’s eyebrows and frown lines creasing her lips: the coldest and most dreadful greeting possible for a young boy.

When their mother said, “My, Mycroft, how sharp you are. It’s as if you can see him getting into trouble before he actually does,” the first statement was true, the latter false. No matter what it seemed like, and regardless of the occupation Mycroft would take as an adult, he was not clairvoyant, nor would he ever be. Mycroft is human. But Mycroft did not need to have supernatural abilities to know what trouble Sherlock got himself into, not when so much of the trouble had been planted by Mycroft in the first place.

There are many differences between the Holmes brothers, but the largest one is this:

Sherlock follows truth from a step behind -- the crime must come first, the investigation afterwards. Mycroft is not nearly so narrow-minded; everything can be manipulated.

 

Once Mycroft makes up his mind to have something, the rest is just follow through.

For a matter as simple as this, seven months should be more than adequate.

 

Introductions first.

“Inspector Lestrade, I’m delighted to finally make your acquaintance. Sherlock has always spoken very highly of you.”

Gregory Lestrade takes Mycroft’s hand hesitantly, but his shake is warm and firm. “Has he,” he says flatly, rounding his desk and thumping himself down heavily into his chair. It squeaks with his weight; Mycroft now knows the particular make of chair, how long it has been in Lestrade’s office, and Lestrade’s weight (not that Mycroft did not know this previously, but confirmation is always a useful thing).

“He often mentions your name without adding insulting adjectives,” Mycroft says kindly. “That’s praise for Sherlock, is it not?”

Lestrade digs a finger into his left eye and rubs harshly. “Look, I know agreed to this meeting, but I -- sorry, I really don’t know what you hope to get out of me. It’s not as if I _let_ him come onto my crime scenes, but trying to keep him out takes more manpower than I’ve got to spare. Also, it does keep him off the drugs, but it’s just that now we’ve got--” He cuts himself off, looking startled at his own admittance. Mycroft supresses a smile. “Uh, you did know about -- that, didn’t you?”

“I did indeed, but if I hadn’t, the news could not have come from a more trusted source.”

Lestrade blinks (Mycroft memorizes the fan of his eyelashes, deduces the radius of tool needed to thread straight through Lestrade’s pupils into his brain -- exquisite). “Oh. Eh? Oh. Thanks, I suppose. Then this _is_ about the rumours of the cocaine ring?”

It isn’t (Mycroft already has that faction of smugglers well under control and following external guidelines), but it will be.

“Yes, quite,” agrees Mycroft, inclining his head slightly. “I must ask you for a favour, Inspector. Seeing as how we are both overly familiar with Sherlock’s history with drugs, as well as Sherlock’s proclivities to find jobs from your assignments -- no need to look so guilty, Inspector, it only matters that the crimes are solved -- I would like you to decline any and all cases having to do with this new drug ring for the near future.”

Lestrade protests, of course. “Now hold on just a sec, you can’t just give me orders for which cases I can and can’t take. As detective inspector, there are certain jobs that can _only_ fall under my jurisdic—”

“I am aware of that, Inspector. That is why I’ve requested a specialized drug squad to act as proxy for your team, in such cases. They’ve already been approved by Scotland Yard. Whenever you come across a case that may be related to this cocaine ring, please arrange a meeting with me and I will forward on the assignment to them.”

“Sorry if I’m being bold,” Lestrade says, clearing his throat unhappily, “but I’d think a person like you would have better things to do than act as liaison between a couple of police officers.”

Good man. So he has done research on Mycroft’s background, then. That saves time and effort; Mycroft is delighted.

“My occupation allows me dealings in many areas, bureaucratic or otherwise, but yes, for Sherlock’s continued health I am willing to devote more energy to this than perhaps I usually would.”

“For Sherlock’s health, eh,” Lestrade says, leaning back in his creaky faux-leather SwivelUK office chair. “From the few times he’s spoken of you, I didn’t picture you as the type of bloke to care much for his sibling’s well-being. Insulting adjectives aplenty, I can tell you that.”

“Then it is fortunate that I’ve had the majority of my life to become used to his immaturity, and still care for him despite of it,” Mycroft returns, smiling, and acknowledges a minor victory in the way that Lestrade’s shoulders lose a little bit of their tension. Such malleable flesh.

The rest of the meeting progresses satisfactorily. Before Mycroft goes, he is sure to compliment the photo of Lestrade’s wife, beaming at him from the edge of his desk. Lestrade thanks him, says that he’s lucky to have her, and shakes Mycroft’s hand once more before Mycroft makes his exit.

 

In the first two months, Mycroft merely exercises patience, teases. The cocaine smugglers provide three opportunities for Lestrade to make a phone call to Mycroft, culminating into a fourth instance where, since Mycroft had business right around the corner (assuredly he made it so), they partook in a quick lunch at a local fish and chip restaurant, over which they discussed less of the progressing case and more about how truly terrible it was to be morally obligated to keep Sherlock Holmes alive.

Mycroft leaves Lestrade with his personal cell phone number. “In case of any emergencies. No, no, I insist, Inspector.”

“Call me Lestrade,” says Lestrade, pocketing Mycroft’s card. “Thanks. You can probably imagine that I don’t get much sympathy from my men, dealing with Sherlock. It’s actually a bloody relief to know someone else is on my side.”

The way that he sighs out Sherlock’s name is both parts exasperation and reluctant fondness. Had Sherlock actually managed to interrupt their lunch today, Mycroft thinks he would have shot him.

Mycroft says, “I assure you that I always will be. Good afternoon, Lestrade, until next time.”

Two minutes later his cell phone rings -- unfortunately it’s not Lestrade; even more unfortunately, it’s unavoidable.

“Leave him alone,” is what Sherlock demands, as soon as Mycroft picks up.

“Do you think I will do him harm?” Mycroft asks, waiting by the curb as a black sedan smoothly rolls up to him. “I know that food and conversation can be as dangerous as tailing serial rapists and bloodthirsty psychopaths, but usually, it is not.”

“What about food and conversation with bloodthirsty psychopaths?”

“You’re the one with experience in that area, not I.”

“ _Sociopath_ ,” Sherlock hisses, as if he could send his voice as a poison through electromagnetic waves. “You’re purposely riling me up to -- I’m not discussing this with you again. I’m calling about Lestrade. I don’t want you corrupting him with your -- machinations. He’s an ally.”

“And he’ll continue to be so, as long as you don’t get in my way,” Mycroft says pleasantly. “I’ve no plans to take him from you, Sherlock.” Not from Sherlock, no.

“You are a vile human being, Mycroft. Lestrade is devoted to his wife to the point of sickness.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Mycroft says. But knowing is not the same as caring.

“I won’t allow you to break him,” Sherlock spits.

“Then you ought to never have become acquainted with the dear detective in the first place. Do not worry yourself, Sherlock. I’ll remould him into something better. Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have jobs to return to. Goodbye.”

“If I find out—“

Mycroft hangs up. He always manages to forget just how tiresome Sherlock can be while sober. How convenient that Mycroft has already arranged for a relapse.

 

To his credit, Sherlock holds out for longer than Mycroft had predicted. He wills himself away from one, then two situations in which both the means and purpose for taking cocaine were painfully obvious, and it is impressive. Perhaps Mycroft had underestimated Sherlock’s growth. He makes adjustments accordingly, and in the third month, when Mycroft gets a frantic phone call from Lestrade in the middle of the night, Mycroft hears Sherlock’s hoarse cursing in the background and knows he’s succeeded at last.

“I will be there in twenty minutes,” he says to Lestrade soothingly. “Do not touch him; do not attempt to reason with him. Lock him in.”

“Yeah, but -- yeah, all right, fine,” Lestrade agrees. “Just get here quickly, will you? Please.”

Twenty-two minutes later, Mycroft is in Sherlock’s hovel he calls a home and has his ear to the door of Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft’s attention, however, is fully on the person standing a few steps behind him, exuding body heat that Mycroft is not sentimental enough to think he can feel from this distance, but he knows to be there nevertheless. Mycroft would like to see Lestrade’s fresh blood one day, but all in good time. For now, this: a moment of calm before the storm, with just the two of them and Lestrade dependent on Mycroft’s course of action. Perhaps Mycroft pauses for a second too long to soak it in; Lestrade clears his throat anxiously, and Mycroft raps sharply on the door.

“Sherlock,” he says sternly, clearly. “It’s your brother. May I come in?”

“FUCK,” Sherlock’s voice shouts back, then a gap, “OFF.” There is the sound of glass shattering.

Mycroft turns to look at Lestrade. “It would be best if I went in by myself. Stay out here until I call you.”

“He’s got a knife, just to warn you,” Lestrade says. “You sure you don’t want me as back-up? I’ve dealt with worse.”

The honourable men always break the most beautifully. Mycroft could not be more pleased.

“I’ve years of experience behind me, remember,” he admonishes, and lets himself into the room.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock is subdued and Mycroft re-emerges with a split lip, but otherwise is in impeccable dress. Lestrade offers his handkerchief, Mycroft accepts with appreciation. Not long after that, they are en route to Mycroft’s house, with Sherlock and Lestrade in the back seat. Sherlock is nearly unconscious due to the sedative Mycroft administered and is murmuring many dangerous things; were Lestrade able to speak French, he might agree.

 _Tu ne peux pas lui faire confiance. Tu ne peux pas._

 

Every newcomer is impressed by the size of Mycroft’s residence, and Lestrade is no different. He lets out an impressed whistle as they pull up to the front gates and Mycroft taps in the security code and presents his thumb for fingerprint analysis. At the entrance, Mycroft sends away Anthea and volunteers to carry Sherlock’s limp, unconscious body inside himself. Mycroft thoroughly loathes any sort of physical chore, but delicate situations such as your only brother’s near-overdose seems to require more of a... personal touch. When Lestrade automatically reaches to heave up Sherlock’s other side, Mycroft knows he’s done the right thing. With his left hand slung across Sherlock’s waist, there are now two points of contact between him and the inspector: one, the skim of Mycroft’s knuckles against Lestrade’s torso, and two, the unyielding knob of Lestrade’s right elbow against the crook of Mycroft’s left arm, as Lestrade supports Sherlock’s balance.

Mycroft imagines squeezing Sherlock’s body tighter and tighter and tighter until his skin and bones collapse, dribble down into a useless heap, leaving no barrier between Mycroft and Lestrade’s arms to wrap around each other. How romantic, that would be. The palms of his hands are sweating, just thinking about it.

Lestrade coughs pointedly after Sherlock is secured in the guest bedroom (he won’t wake up for another twelve hours and Mycroft will be on the other side of the planet by then), and Mycroft has poured each of them some brandy. “You, er, should you alert the missus?”

Mycroft pauses to take a sip of his drink. “There is no missus,” he says softly.

“Oh, sorry. I just thought -- you’ve got a ring, so...”

“We are divorced,” Mycroft clarifies, although that half second of seeing Lestrade squirm had been very nice. “I keep the ring on because politics run smoother when you are seen as a family man.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear that, Holmes. I can’t imagine leaving my wife -- it’d probably do me in.”

The statement, given so casually, twists like a knife into Mycroft’s gut. His brows furrow unintentionally, but Lestrade continues to look at him sympathetically, so he is misinterpreting the cause of Mycroft’s discomfort. Fine. “We’re much happier apart, as we were both pleased and saddened to find out,” Mycroft says. “She was a lovely woman, but not very understanding when I admitted that more and more, my tastes ran towards the... gentlemen variety, shall we say.”

Lestrade starts. “Ah. Sorry to hear that -- about the wife, not the -- not your tastes. Nothing wrong with that on my end.”

Mycroft smiles. “Thank you, Lestrade. If only more people were as accepting.”

“So, no kids, either?”

“I’m a very busy man; there was never a good time. Sad to say, the scope of my familial responsibility is focused primarily on Sherlock.”

Again, with that sympathetic look. The attention is gratifying, but Mycroft would rather see desperation. “You poor bugger,” Lestrade says, shaking his head.

Mycroft raises his glass: a partial salute.

 

The fourth month is busy, but Mycroft is nothing but an expert at managing events.

Week one, there is a slew of particularly heinous stabbings that require Lestrade’s dedication for long hours into the night. At the same time, there is a man of Lestrade’s hair colour and stature who is hired to flirt outrageously with his pretty date in public cafes near areas where Lestrade’s wife commutes from work, does the shopping, posts mail, the like. A pickpocket steals Lestrade’s cell phone one day and he is kept too busy to replace it, instead opting for a temporary company-use phone, which works intermittently at best.

Week two, Lestrade is assigned a case in which a serial killer laced her dates’ dinners with sleeping pills and cut off their lips before they fully went under; of course Sherlock finds out that she is a paranoid schizophrenic and all of the victims had similar features to her dead husband. Mycroft is sure to antagonize Sherlock more than usual this week, leaving no choice but for Sherlock to spend his vitriol at the crime scenes, leaving no one but Lestrade to defuse the situation, leaving him in foul mood by the time he trudges home. Mycroft makes sure he catches every single red light he meets.

Week three: domestic battery, child abuse, assault. Usually all jobs easier left to the rookies, but Lestrade’s presence is requested because the victims prove to be particularly difficult in admitting the guilt of their attackers. These are the types of grey-tinged cases that only those who’ve seen just how murky the borders of human morality are can understand; speaking about them to others -- those who’ve never seen a bleeding child cry over the mother who broke his skin -- is often frustrating and futile. Mycroft, however, is a good listener by default, so when Lestrade is drowning in alcohol at a bar far away from his own neighbourhood, Mycroft stumbles into the very same establishment. Quite the surprise. But from the hopeful spark in Lestrade’s half-lidded eyes, not an unwelcome one.

Lestrade is a morose drunk. Brow heavy, bloodshot eyes cast low, lips sagging; it’s as if the sum of weight he’s been carrying on his shoulders all this time has seeped into his face. Mycroft looks at Lestrade and for an instant recollects the same face, except contorted in pleasure, glistening with sweat, mouth open and panting on rumpled pillows. The same face, breaking into a grin, calling a voice, his wife, his blasted wife, Mycroft could have smashed the television screen then, seeing her disgusting claws touch Lestrade’s face -- he’d nearly ripped the handkerchief in his hands to shreds. It was exhilarating, however. The anticipation of what was to come was delicious; Mycroft had rewound the camera footage and replayed the moment of Lestrade’s orgasm in slow motion, secure in the knowledge that one day he would see that in person. He would peel off Lestrade’s skin while in the expression, freeze it in liquid nitrogen, frame it, hang it on the ceiling above his bed --

Calm. Properly, do this properly.

Mycroft tells Lestrade that if he ever needs him, he is but a phone call away.

“Thanks, Holmes,” Lestrade says gratefully.

“Such formality,” Mycroft replies, tutting, “though we are surely friends by now? Call me Mycroft.” In return, he earns “Greg.”

Week four, Lestrade’s wife receives a promotion at work and Lestrade is confined in his office, unable to celebrate with her beyond a phone call. At her new position in management at her PR firm, her superiors are handsome, charming, and have plenty of time and money to spare. The man who resembles her husband is still stringing along lovers. The heating in their house breaks down; it makes the nights alone in her queen-sized bed all the colder. The rise in pay offers reason to suggest a vacation, but new developments involving the drug ring takes away all Lestrade’s time with her and redirects it to Mycroft. Soon, there will be marriage counselling, for which Mycroft already has a therapist at the ready and a guarantee that separation will be a recommendation.

Everything progresses along swimmingly. Sherlock, sober once again, is occupied with finding a new flat after all the damage he’d wrought on his old one during his psychosis, and obviously is trying to keep Mycroft from finding out where. Knowing Lestrade is spending time with Mycroft likely boils his insides as swallowing sulphuric acid might, but what evidence does he have to sway Lestrade’s opinion? There are a few occasions where Mycroft had worried (never feared) that Sherlock might use his confounding charisma to lure Lestrade away by unpredictable means, but they come to nothing, and soon, wonderfully, something new lands back in London to occupy Sherlock’s limited emotional reserves.

John Watson is no fool and yet bravely foolish -- how typical and yet extraordinary, for a soldier. He takes one look at Mycroft at their first meeting and decides that he is not a person worth trusting, and yet a few hours later, he shoots a complete stranger for the sake of a stranger complete stranger. Had Mycroft been the Holmes to meet John first, he actually doubts that the situation would have played out much differently.

John Watson is a much smarter man than Lestrade, in many ways. It is fortunate that Mycroft has never been very interested in John beyond how much he will be able to tame Sherlock, before the pair of them meets their inevitably gruesome deaths.

 

The fifth month, Mycroft finds himself forced to increase his efforts -- Sherlock had been right: Lestrade and his wife are singularly devoted to each other, and though the thread between them is rapidly fraying, it is still sufficient to bind them together. They take the therapist’s idea for separation into serious consideration, but unbelievably, unanimously decide against it. Mycroft watches real time as they make love with teary eyes and heartfelt declarations to renew their efforts to preserve their marriage. Afterwards, he realizes that he’s been clenching his fists so hard that he’s broken skin. Mycroft ruins his diet that night and vents his anger by ordering the accidental death of Lestrade’s wife’s childhood friend.

Ah, but then. Then, things once more curve in the direction of Mycroft’s interests, though not without its complications. Poor handling threatens to decimate the entirety of Mycroft’s plans, but Mycroft will allow no such thing.

Lestrade’s wife misses her period one day and Mycroft knows instantly that she is with child. He even gets an ecstatic call from Lestrade, which at least confirms Mycroft’s role as friend, even though he could have ripped Lestrade apart on the spot, had they been speaking in person. Mycroft takes Lestrade out to a congratulatory dinner, and deduces from the slurred anecdotes when the baby was conceived. It must be a few weeks old at this point, so he must act fast. Over dinner at a restaurant recommended to her by her boss, Lestrade’s wife gets food poisoning of a specific strain: one designed to allow her to recover quickly, but to cause miscarriage of the fetus. It is so simple and effective that Mycroft thinks it cruel he will never be able to share this feat with anyone else.

Following the prognosis by the doctor, all Mycroft has to do is to offer Lestrade his condolences. He suggests that perhaps such a tragedy is for the best, as Lestrade’s wife is not exactly of prime child-bearing age, and Lestrade himself has an occupation that goes hand in hand with danger. People are disgustingly easy to predict at times, more so when they’re stressed, overwrought; Lestrade parrots back Mycroft’s words at night while his wife is sobbing in his arms, and knowing the type of woman his wife is (which Mycroft does, intimately by now), she, of course, does not react favourably.

Separation. “Just for a while, until I get my head back,” Lestrade’s wife promises, but then she is promoted again at her job, and a while stretches into a bit longer, then longer still.

Lestrade rents a small apartment near downtown, but his landlord abruptly kicks out his residents after the city orders him to upgrade his building up to safety code. Sherlock, already with a roommate, is no longer an option, and Lestrade is too much of a professional to stay with any of his team. Being a dedicated detective inspector affords Lestrade few friends, and certainly none with a guest bedroom as lavish as Mycroft’s. So, then. There is but one route.

“Welcome,” Mycroft says, when he lets a harried Lestrade into his house.

“Thanks for having me on such short notice,” Lestrade sighs, bone weary.

“Think nothing of it, Greg. My home is yours.”

 

For a while, it is good. Very good, in fact. Good enough that Mycroft loses six pounds off his waistline.

With their wildly conflicting schedules, Mycroft doesn’t actually see a lot of his new tenant, but there is something distinctly thrilling to know that Lestrade lives with him, bathes and eats and sleeps under the same roof, cries quietly in the pillows Mycroft has provided. It is trust, and it is dependency, and Mycroft revels in it. If Mycroft so wishes it, he could hire a specialist to collect samples of Lestrade’s sloughed off skin cells, hairs, nail clippings, fingerprints, saliva off his toothbrush -- semen, even. It is a treasure trove of DNA at the ready, and the possibilities are endless. Mycroft is not like Sherlock, who is merely happy to learn and categorize and be done with it; Mycroft _stores_. He has never seriously considered implicating Lestrade’s hand in a murder, but he enjoys toying with the notion: it helps to keep him awake in boring political meetings.

On the rare evenings where Lestrade is home in time for supper, Mycroft is there too. The prepared meals are lavish, but not excessively so (Mycroft has long since realized that Lestrade’s tastes prefer greasy and salty foods -- how plebeian), and while Mycroft exercises self-control, he does gain much amusement seeing Lestrade shovel food down his throat like he’s been starved for years. A beautiful throat. Such a throat was made for depravity. Ah, and his _lips_ \--

“You all right there, Mycroft?” Lestrade asks, taking a sip of water (it glistens on his lip; tongue darts out to wipe the moisture away).

“Fine, thank you. Just -- something on my mind as of late.”

“Oh? Go on, then.”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself over. Just work-related matters.”

“No difference to me, either way. And it might be good to get it off your chest.”

“Ah, well. If you insist,” Mycroft says primly. “We’ve caught sight of a black hole in funding in one of our largest media divisions -- no names named, mind you -- and after I investigated a little, things seem to point to someone funnelling money out of the department’s pocket and into their own. Not just money, but classified information as well.”

Lestrade grunts. “Sounds like a nasty business. Hope you manage to catch the man.”

“Yes, as do I.”

“Call the police for help?” This is said a bit pointedly.

“We can’t have it publicized yet, I’m afraid,” Mycroft demurs. “Plus, it’s merely a suspicion I have. These matters are best handled with restraint until enough proof is collected, as I’m sure you’re well aware of. I’m in the process of gathering some now.”

“Ought to be a piece of cake for you though, won’t it? Man with your talents,” Lestrade grins good-naturedly.

Mycroft laughs. “You’re giving me too much credit, Greg.”

But he would be right. It really is a piece of cake to find the culprit. Naturally.

 

“I would like your opinion on something,” Mycroft says, a few days later.

Lestrade is watching the game on the television in full relaxation mode: sweatpants, t-shirt, recliner, feet on the coffee table, a bowl of crisps by his ankle, a sweating beer in his hand. Mycroft couldn’t commission for a painting more breathtaking.

“Have at it,” Lestrade says, taking a swig of beer. He takes his feet off the table.

Mycroft sits down in the easy chair across from Greg and steeples his hands together.

“God, is that where Sherlock gets it from?” Lestrade blurts out.

“Beg pardon?”

“That—” Lestrade imitates his movement, fingers touching together. “He does it at crime scenes all the time. John and I have started this counting game, while Sherlock’s running around doing whatever the hell he does. His record’s four times in fifteen minutes.” He laughs, sounding a bit abashed. “A bit unprofessional, that.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to keep yourself amused,” Mycroft reassures him. “Sherlock brings out the worst in people.”

“John made it up; he’s a good man. We’re a bit out of our depths when Sherlock’s concerned, but he really has been much -- I don’t want to say _better_ , but more tolerable, for sure -- since John’s come ‘round. Can’t remember how we ever survived without him.”

Mycroft beams. “I couldn’t agree more. Sherlock has never been in better health since Doctor Watson moved in with him. I owe him more than I can say.”

Last week, upon waking up from the extensive explosion-related injuries caused by the unfortunate incident in the pool (all Sherlock’s fault, of course), John Watson had found out that his sister, in her grief, had returned to her oldest and most reliable friend: the bottle. Upon finally being released from hospital with an adequate bill of health, John had gone around London looking for possible rehabilitation centres for his alcoholic sister-- unlucky for him, if he ever did try to commit her to one, the endeavour would be doomed to fail, in any number of ways. To encourage John’s own burgeoning addiction to Sherlock’s fast-paced, thrill-chasing life, in which he also acts as a valuable buffer between Mycroft and his brother, Harriet Watson must stay a drunk. There is a beautiful logic to this -- a shame that Sherlock is the only other person who might be able to see it.

“You were saying, though?” Lestrade prompts. “Advice?”

“Yes, I find myself in a bit of an... awkward situation, you could say,” Mycroft allows, shifting slightly in his seat. “Do you remember that talk we had over dinner last week? About the stolen funds, and the data.”

“Yep, sure I do. You’re telling me you found your man?”

“A woman, in this case,” Mycroft corrects lightly, “but yes. I believe I have enough evidence to form a strong case against her.”

“And she has been stealing the money? A lot of it?”

“Oh yes. She’s selling secrets, too, for a fee. She’s earning quite substantial amounts of money.”

“That’s quite a claim, coming from someone whose house has more rooms than furniture.”

“Exaggerations, I’m sure.”

Lestrade grins (Mycroft imagines the softness of those lips -- how much pain could a man like Gregory Lestrade withstand? Haunting, fascinating questions). “So, what’s the problem? You’ve got your lady, you’ve got your proof, what else do you need? A fancy scene where a team barges into her flat and tells her to stick her hands up?”

“Nothing as cliché as that. I was concerned about this case, morally. It seems that this woman, the guilty party -- is an acquaintance of someone I know. It would be -- rather devastating, I feel, for this person to find out that he or she has been close to a criminal for all this time, and I’d like to spare him -- or her -- undue pain. So, you can see—”

“Let me get this straight,” Lestrade interrupts. “You’re afraid of hurting your friend’s feelings, so you’re going to let a thief get away, scot-free?”

Mycroft frowns. “When you put it that way, I sound like a buffoon.”

“Well, sure you do. The law is the law -- you do realize that you can be implicated as an accomplice, if you stay silent and allow her to keep stealing?”

“You’re a very moral man, Greg.”

“Just part of my job, isn’t it? I think your friend will understand. It can’t be a very easy decision to make.”

“No, no it’s not. Had she only been siphoning off the cash, perhaps I could have taken care of this mess differently, but the information she’s spreading is priceless, regrettably.” Mycroft grimaces. “If I don’t step in now, then someone else surely will soon.”

“Then you might as well. To be honest with you, the cocky ones are the worst. Cash in a few times, then suddenly think they’re Thomas bloody Crown.”

Mycroft laughs, delighted. Greg smirks back, and there is an instant where Mycroft thinks he might lose control of himself, throw himself across the room and onto Greg and just _tear_ into him, push him down and _feast_ \-- instead, he leans forwards, elbows on his knees and fingers interlaced. “I’ve wanted to thank you, by the way,” Mycroft says, calm tone belying the heavy thudding of his heart. “Your company in these recent weeks has been -- beneficial to me. You must know that I’ve lived alone for a long time -- the hired help don’t count -- and it’s... pleasant, to have someone else here around with whom I can relax.”

“That’s a bit backwards, isn’t it,” Greg smiles ruefully. “You’ve helped me more than I’ll ever admit, letting me kip here.”

“Then let’s call it even. But I need you to know, Greg, that you can always rely on me in the future, for whatever that happens. I’ve come to trust you, and I hope the same can be said vice versa.”

Greg’s eyes grow darker -- how riveting. “’Course,” he says.

One day, Mycroft will find a way to bottle that gravelly voice and pour it over his skin.

“Whatever happens,” Mycroft reiterates, and bids Greg good night.

 

Lestrade’s wife, heretofore keeping in contact with her husband via email and phone calls, abruptly cuts off contact with him. Lestrade waits it out for a full 36 hours before he heads back to their shared house near Hammersmith; he arrives just in time to see the CIA agents march her out the front door, hands cuffed behind her and head bent low.

“Greg,” she sobs, seeing her husband’s stunned face amongst the crowd of black-suited men. “Greg, help me, I didn’t know what I was doing, I thought I was just doing my job, I was just following orders. Greg, I didn’t mean to!”

“Gracie, what the hell is this, what’s going on—”

“Greg, they said they’re going to take me away! They said I threatened national security -- but I didn’t, how could I, I _didn’t_ \-- I’m _sorry_ , Greg.”

Lestrade tries to push his way through the agents, stretching out his hand to reach her, and right before he can touch her arm, she flinches back and screams.

“NO! NO, DON’T TOUCH ME!”

The last sight Greg has of her is the back of her twitching head as she is locked in the sedan and driven away.

Mycroft, kilometres away and yet never far, watches the entire scene and feels _such_ joy.

 

“Mycroft!” Greg roars, slamming into Mycroft’s office. “It was Grace?! The whole time, it was GRACIE?”

Mycroft stands up, only to be shoved back down, Greg’s hands like vices on his shoulders. He has to suppress a shiver -- this reaction is even better than he had dreamed: Greg looks like a madman, teeth bared, lips quivering with rage, pupils blown black and wide. This is Gregory Lestrade breaking and it is utterly glorious.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” is what Mycroft says. “I did hope that it would not have to come to this. I tried holding off on this, truly. I gave her warnings, I tried to cut off her contacts, but she—”

“This doesn’t even make a fucking lick of sense, you bastard! Grace isn’t the type to harm _anyone_ \-- she became a vegetarian at nine, for Christ’s sake; can’t even stomach me swatting flies -- she works for a PR firm, she’s a spokeswoman, how the bloody hell would she have access to—”

Mycroft cuts in sharply. “She _did_ work for a PR firm, yes, and she _was_ a spokeswoman. New Media Development Liaison, wasn’t it? But she hasn’t had that job for months, Greg. She got transferred into Parliament Relations, you know that. Her promotion evidently gained her more than just a pay raise -- she’s been in talks with underground groups, feeding them enough information to make them a terrorist threat on Her Majesty. _As well as_ stealing the citizens’ taxes. Didn’t you wonder just how one single promotion could have increased her pay cheque by so much? You were wondering how she afforded that all-inclusive cruise to the Bahamas, weren’t you.”

Greg is practically spitting with fury, but there, in his eyes, Mycroft sees doubt. Yes. _Yes_.

“I can show you her file, if you like,” Mycroft suggests, very softly, placating. “You know very well no one save for the CIA and MI5 is allowed to lay eyes on it, but for you, I can make an exception.”

“I just -- I can’t,” Lestrade says, reeling back as if struck. “I just can’t believe this. I won’t!” His fist flies out, cracking against the wall. Despite himself, Mycroft starts.

“Greg? Calm down,” he orders. Violence is one thing, but Mycroft can’t abide damage to his _office_.

“John warned me,” Greg manages to say, voice hoarse and low. Something very sharp and cold digs deep into Mycroft’s stomach at those words. John, John Watson, that _imbecile_ , Mycroft should have _killed him_ back when--

Greg continues, “John warned me that hanging around you would only bring me trouble. Says that you know too much, all the time, more than Sherlock, in a different way than Sherlock, that it’s not good. I should’ve -- I should’ve listened to him when—”

“Irrespective of John Watson’s noble intentions,” Mycroft snaps, “Grace Anne Lestrade would still have committed treason against the nation of England. Are you faulting me in a crime I did not commit?”

But Lestrade is sobbing too hard now to listen.

 

They arrange a visit. At the CIA facility where Greg’s wife is being held. Mycroft gets him white-card clearance, limitless talking time, and even manages to keep their conversation from being monitored except by a single pinhole camera -- the existence of which even the guards in the room are not aware.

Mycroft waits at a nearby lounge area, fingers restlessly tapping on his umbrella’s handle. His tooth aches. He wishes for a muffin, maybe a tart. He wishes for heads on a plate. He wishes for patience.

Two hours and forty-three minutes later, Lestrade steps out of the tiny, white-washed room looking like the undead. As if his heart has been scooped out and his veins left to run dry.

“She’s not the person I fell in love with,” is all he mumbles, before allowing Mycroft to escort him out of the building.

Mycroft could have told him that, that his wife is beyond help. He also could have showed Lestrade the mix of drugs administered to her in order to facilitate such a state, but surely Mycroft, of all people, is permitted his secrets.

 

The seventh month melts into the eighth. One night, with the both of them sitting by the fireplace, Mycroft not reading and Greg not paying attention to the game, Mycroft reaches over to push the liquor bottle away from Greg’s lips and replaces it with his own mouth.

Greg sighs against Mycroft’s touch, a lovely token, and Mycroft knows he’s won.

**Author's Note:**

> A few things! 1) Written for a sherlockbbc_fic meme prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=46233000#t46233000). 2) The title is taken from a song of the same name by Our Lady Peace (the song is unrelated). 3) What Sherlock says in French (hopefully) translates to, "You cannot trust him. You cannot."


End file.
